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13 May 2009
He always comments on the normal people moments. Sitting in a coffee shop laughing at the pretentious conversations. Driving around town listening to a newly purchased cd. Lying in bed watching me get ready for work in the morning. But these aren't the moments that stand out for me. The moments I love, the ones that sear themselves into my memory and bring tears to my eyes, are those sweet, passionate, and intimate moments that normal people not only will never have, but will never even understand.
I made him a collar. I bought a silver colored pendant tray into which I placed a picture of the name I have given him and I glued the glass down over it. I strung the pendant on a braided leather cord which I capped with silver crimp beads. To those I attached a bar and loop closure. My thought was that this closure style, as opposed to a clasp of some sort, would allow me to pull the necklace tight and be able to choke him with it at times. While this effect worked as planned, there were some drawbacks to the style that I hadn't considered.
"I made you a present," I told him as he kneeled before me, "and it will belong to you like you belong to me. But just like how you belong to me, there are some rules. Only I can put it on you. And no one but me can take it off you. It is yoursbut you can't put it on or take it off yourself. Do you accept?"
He did, and I placed it around his neck. He wore it the rest of the evening, even as we went to dinner with my husbands family. It was such a bizarre and pleasant sensation to look over and see it hanging around his neck and to know what that meant. He was mine. This strong, forceful man not only belonged to me, but wanted it acknowledged.
Later in the evening we discovered the flaw in its design. At some point while rolling around in bed the bar slipped the ring and it fell off. I noticed almost immediately and resolved to put it back on at the first opportune moment. However, when that moment came I rolled over to pick it up and found it no longer sitting on the pillow next to me. I looked up to see it back around his neck and I grew cold with anger.
"I only gave you two rules. You can't even get through a night with out breaking them?"
His eyes widened and his speech was rapid and scared. "I didn't take it off. It fell off. No one else took it off." He sounded like a child who has just realized he's in trouble but isn't quite sure why.
"You aren't supposed to put it on yourself, either." I have stopped moving and am simply stradling him, staring down at him reproachfully. "I only gave you two rules."
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." In the face of his fear and contrition my anger has faded to a sort of menacing joy. It's not an emotion I have felt before and I allow myself to slip further into it before giving in to my need to comfort him. As angry as I was at him for breaking such simple rules, the truth is that these rules are new to him. They are not something he has ever had to deal with before and . . .
"Everyone makes mistakes sometimes. It's alright." But I know my words of comfort are not enough. They do not satisfy my earlier anger, nor my current menace. More importantly, they do not satisfy his sense of guilt. With an open palm I hit him hard enough to turn his head sharply to the side. "But don't do it again."
The evening continues. Eventually we grow tired and things wind down. We're lying in bed with him curled up in my arms. As even the conversation begins to die down into tired murmurs, I decide that, given the item's apparent tendency to fall off, I should probably remove it before we fall asleep. I reach up and undo the clasp and begin pulling it off when I hear the whimper from the body in front of me.
"I don't want you to lose it while you're sleeping," I said by way of explanation, hoping to calm the despair from his body.
"I don't want to lose it," he said. His voice sounded so young. Is it odd that, in these moments, I continually compare him to a child? And yet there is no other explanation for his tone other than that used by a child who is trying to be convinced to leave behind a prized possession against his better, emotional judgment. I held it for a moment, draped over his shoulder before coming to a decision. Afterall, even if it fell off during the night, it would only fall into the bed. We'd be able to find it in the morning. Coming to that realization I quietly placed it back around his neck. All his tension escaped out of him in a rasping sigh and I felt his body relax, content, against mine.
Can I possibly describe how that moment pulled at my heart? He'd told me he loved me before, but I don't think I ever felt it as powerfully as just then. When he whimpered at its removal I think it was the first moment I believed he liked it as much as he said he did. On the one hand there was the simple gratitude of having a gift that I had put so much time and effort into designing and crafted being liked and appreciated. It was a normal person's motivation. But there was also all the meaning and symbolism invested in the object; to know that it all was important enough that, even sleeping, he wished to remain in my possession was - powerful. And perhaps inexplicable. I don't think "normal people" would ever understand why that small whimper could move me to tears. And those who can understand - well, they don't need the explanation.
I made him a collar. I bought a silver colored pendant tray into which I placed a picture of the name I have given him and I glued the glass down over it. I strung the pendant on a braided leather cord which I capped with silver crimp beads. To those I attached a bar and loop closure. My thought was that this closure style, as opposed to a clasp of some sort, would allow me to pull the necklace tight and be able to choke him with it at times. While this effect worked as planned, there were some drawbacks to the style that I hadn't considered.
"I made you a present," I told him as he kneeled before me, "and it will belong to you like you belong to me. But just like how you belong to me, there are some rules. Only I can put it on you. And no one but me can take it off you. It is yoursbut you can't put it on or take it off yourself. Do you accept?"
He did, and I placed it around his neck. He wore it the rest of the evening, even as we went to dinner with my husbands family. It was such a bizarre and pleasant sensation to look over and see it hanging around his neck and to know what that meant. He was mine. This strong, forceful man not only belonged to me, but wanted it acknowledged.
Later in the evening we discovered the flaw in its design. At some point while rolling around in bed the bar slipped the ring and it fell off. I noticed almost immediately and resolved to put it back on at the first opportune moment. However, when that moment came I rolled over to pick it up and found it no longer sitting on the pillow next to me. I looked up to see it back around his neck and I grew cold with anger.
"I only gave you two rules. You can't even get through a night with out breaking them?"
His eyes widened and his speech was rapid and scared. "I didn't take it off. It fell off. No one else took it off." He sounded like a child who has just realized he's in trouble but isn't quite sure why.
"You aren't supposed to put it on yourself, either." I have stopped moving and am simply stradling him, staring down at him reproachfully. "I only gave you two rules."
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." In the face of his fear and contrition my anger has faded to a sort of menacing joy. It's not an emotion I have felt before and I allow myself to slip further into it before giving in to my need to comfort him. As angry as I was at him for breaking such simple rules, the truth is that these rules are new to him. They are not something he has ever had to deal with before and . . .
"Everyone makes mistakes sometimes. It's alright." But I know my words of comfort are not enough. They do not satisfy my earlier anger, nor my current menace. More importantly, they do not satisfy his sense of guilt. With an open palm I hit him hard enough to turn his head sharply to the side. "But don't do it again."
The evening continues. Eventually we grow tired and things wind down. We're lying in bed with him curled up in my arms. As even the conversation begins to die down into tired murmurs, I decide that, given the item's apparent tendency to fall off, I should probably remove it before we fall asleep. I reach up and undo the clasp and begin pulling it off when I hear the whimper from the body in front of me.
"I don't want you to lose it while you're sleeping," I said by way of explanation, hoping to calm the despair from his body.
"I don't want to lose it," he said. His voice sounded so young. Is it odd that, in these moments, I continually compare him to a child? And yet there is no other explanation for his tone other than that used by a child who is trying to be convinced to leave behind a prized possession against his better, emotional judgment. I held it for a moment, draped over his shoulder before coming to a decision. Afterall, even if it fell off during the night, it would only fall into the bed. We'd be able to find it in the morning. Coming to that realization I quietly placed it back around his neck. All his tension escaped out of him in a rasping sigh and I felt his body relax, content, against mine.
Can I possibly describe how that moment pulled at my heart? He'd told me he loved me before, but I don't think I ever felt it as powerfully as just then. When he whimpered at its removal I think it was the first moment I believed he liked it as much as he said he did. On the one hand there was the simple gratitude of having a gift that I had put so much time and effort into designing and crafted being liked and appreciated. It was a normal person's motivation. But there was also all the meaning and symbolism invested in the object; to know that it all was important enough that, even sleeping, he wished to remain in my possession was - powerful. And perhaps inexplicable. I don't think "normal people" would ever understand why that small whimper could move me to tears. And those who can understand - well, they don't need the explanation.
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